I am disgusted by the U.S. mail
its endless soul-crush pulp of catalogues,
Con Edison, mammogram notices
stinking with aggravation.
Just once I would like to reach in the slot
and come upon a stony hollow
or perhaps a tiny garden,
a plot filled with pint-sized animals:
token birds, a little hairless cat
and a mountain range behind it
miniaturized, a small wall of shadow
to gaze at as I loaf the evening
on a petite porch, a bit of loaf,
cubed cheese, an apple from my mini tree
nothing major just a light supper
on chippy, earthenware dishes.
This will be the depth of my story,
the stunning extent of my smile:
a scattered few pin-prick dung drops,
some night weather, no envelopes.
Melissa Broder is the author of WHEN YOU SAY ONE THING BUT MEAN YOUR MOTHER (Ampersand Books; 2010). She is the chief editor of La Petite Zine and curates the Polestar Poetry Series at CakeShop. Her poems appear in many journals, including: Opium, Shampoo, Swink, Five Dials and PANK. By day she works as a literary publicist. Find her online at www.melissabroder.com.